Monthly Archives: October 2010

There was a new car wash in town. A skeleton car wash. It was called “Skeleton Car Wash” because it was a car wash run completely by skeletons.

It was Saturday. I was in the car with my stepmother, and she asked me, quite bluntly, “Would you like to go to the Skeleton Car Wash?” I asked, “You mean, the one run completely by skeletons?” She nodded. The other Skeleton Car Wash was run by the Skeleton family who were not skeletons.

We pulled up to the Skeleton Car Wash, and a skeleton in coveralls walked over to the driver’s-side window. “What’ll it be, ma’am?” My stepmother asked for a normal wash; the skeleton walked over to my window, rapped on it, and stuck the ten dollar bill my stepmother had given him right in his eye socket. It popped out of his mouth and I guess it would be scarier if we hadn’t just shopped at the Skeleton Supermarket (they have a skeleton in the back that works in the deli).

My stepmother drove into the car wash, and the lights went out. It was just like a regular car wash, except you were supposed to tune your radio to a specific frequency and they would play spooky sound effects. Except I guess the skeletons weren’t paying attention because there was just a bunch of jungle sounds.

We pulled out of the Skeleton Car Wash onto the main road. We both felt empty, somehow. Suddenly, my stepmother looked at me and asked, “Wasn’t that car wash supposed to be $8.50?” At that point I realized that my stepmother was a ghost all along, and we didn’t get our change back and things were scary.

I am a C! I am a C-H! I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N! And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T and I will L-I-V-E-E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y!

Hello, brothers and sisters! This is your old friend H.P. Lovecraft and have I got some good news for you!

You may remember from the last time we talked that I was going to kill myself because I was prideful and couldn’t stand the crushing poverty and my loveless marriage any longer. Yep, Ol’ H.P. was feeling pretty low back then.

But it was as I was laying on the floor, lolling in opiate ecstasy, that a realization came to me. I knew suicide was not going to save me. Friends, Jesus came to me in that moment and I was saved! Born again! I knew then what was wrong with my life. I had my wife drag me right out of that wine cellar and into the nearest church and I accepted God into my life. I was baptized right there and Rev. Randolph Carter said I was now a heavily armed member in the Army of God.

I survived my suicide attempt! And I’m here today to tell you that the old yarn about the footprints in the sand is true: “When I saw only one set of tentacle tracks, it was then that He carried me.”

I’m much happier today. I’m using my gifts as a writer to spread the message about our church’s love. Rev. Carter even said how impressed he was with the manifesto I carved in the door of the new Muslim community center in town. How about that?

Unfortunately, before I can continue doing the Lord’s work, there’s some business I have to take care of. Namely, my contract with Scholastic publishing that states I need to turn out another book of Halloween jokes.

Now, I want you to know that I don’t believe in Halloween anymore. I plan on spending Trick Or Treat this year handing out free VHS copies of this inspiring little tune. But a deal is a deal, and Rev. Carter said the royalties I make off the book can go to buying that compound in Montana he’s had his eye on.

Here’s just a few of the jokes you can read this fall in “H.P. Lovecraft’s 101 Hell-oween Punnies.”

Q. What do you get when you take the circumference of your jack-o-lantern and divide it by its diameter?

Booyah!

A.“Gods, Jacobson! Those aren’t mountains at all. It’s a cityscape!” Our plane flew low over the arctic on our mission to witness to the last Un-Christified place on the planet. In the belly of our freight jet, crate after crate of tracts waited, depicting sinners flying from the loving arms of the angels into the pit of fire Jesus prepared for his lousier children. Our plan: dump these over the arctic wilderness and return to the Mississippi Synod for a leisurely afternoon of snake handling.

The expedition to that point had been a success. Jacobson successfully witnessed to several Esqimeaux and I took their head measurements for my seminary senior thesis on phrenology and the holy spirit.

But the dread city (which was probably built by Turks) filled our field of vision. And how can I describe it? It was all wrong! Our laws of geometry apparently did not apply to it’s cyclopean angular madness! Obtuse angles of buildings squatted hideously in ways the human mind could hardly comprehend. Suddenly, we had a feeling that Ezekiel probably had when God (NOT ELDER THINGS!!!!!) took him up into the sky on a chariot of fire and showed him creation. The plane turned this way and that, at one time appearing to be plummeting to the earth, at another flying toward the stars, at still another, time traveling sideways.

With the mad city in our view the physical properties of things changed, with me entering Jacobson’s body and with Jacobson entering mine.

I want to be clear here, we did this merely as a perversion of physics and not as a perversion of the body. Rev . Carter said God has a plan for gays and AIDS is just the beginning.

In our shared horror we prayed to Jesus to save us from the Non-Euclidean Hell that was playing out in front of us. When we looked up again, the dread city was gone. In its place the sun shone beautifully through the clouds. Our Earth’s geometry had returned to its proper place.

A. Let me ask you something, friend: If you died today, do you know where you’d go? Would it be to someplace sunny and warm, with everyone you ever loved and every childhood pet you thought you’d never see again waiting to meet you?

Or would it be an infernally hot place where you are penetrated hourly by a cackling Leslie Nielsen with bat wings?

Eggsorcists.

Q. Why did the Demon eat a whole Shoe store?

A. Ragnar, Glutton of the Wastes, laughed horridly to himself on his throne built of skulls, heavy metal CD’s, Magic the Gathering Cards and textbooks from a public school. His six breasts swayed like pock-marked red moons as he gurgled in fell joy from the bounty he just consumed.

He picked his teeth with a lawyer from the ACLU as he ate sole… after sole… after sole…

___________________

Well, I hope you’re satisfied with that, because I have to go now. With my worldly contractual obligations fulfilled I have to go take care of my spiritual contract. You see, there’s an abortionarium that opened in Providence recently, and you-know-who (it’s Jesus) told me a certain doctor there needs to have his baby-killing soul aborted with the Lovecraft-family blunderbuss.

Hey, all. Chuck Guntly, here. Wish I could be writing this on happier terms, but Obummer’s depression has certainly taken its toll on the Guntly clan. Ever since those GOVERNMENT FATCATS took away my driver’s license for plowing through a VFW during one of my “dizzy spells,” I’ve had to walk three whole blocks just for a simple trip to the liquor store! And walking more than 20 blocks a day… boy, are my dogs barking! See, this is why we need to dismantle oppressive government agencies like the DMV — who are they to decide that a veteran’s time on this earth hasn’t expired? I’m sure that 84 year-old tail gunner is looking down from heaven in gratitude for releasing him from this Orwellian nightmare known as life in America.

It shouldn’t surprise any of you that, as a firm believer in common sense, I’m a proud member of the Tea Party movement. In fact, you might have seen me on CNN; I made sure my anti-Obungle rally sign had the most swastikas (33 at last count). Though I’ve always been proudly seated at the tea table of Rationalism… even back when I was a little spud, Grandpa Guntly would speak proudly of those golden years before a cripple Demoncrat made it so part of my hard-earned disability check had to pay for some preteen’s crack baby… that I don’t even know! He also did this trick where he removed his glass eye and whipped it as hard as he could at my mom’s ass… sigh… Miss you, Gampy.

Oboner's kinda like the guy you invite over who steals all the beer from your kiddie pool and then has sex with your wife while you're busy trying to pull car parts out of the sewer. I'll never forgive you, Rusty.

Anyhow, it looks like Kommisar Obumble and his Captial Hill Cronies have cooked up a new scheme to pay off the national debt– and no, it’s not eliminating that overfunded hydra known as public television. No, Obama’s gonna squeeze our cheeks the hardest: we regular Joes in the middle class. As part of the lower ceiling of this group (I made $13,000 last year, not counting the water cooler reservoir full of pennies I found in that ditch), I’m not looking forward to finally becoming rich, only to see hundreds, if not thousands, thrown into a roaring fire of programs like wheelchair ramp funding and asbestos removal from insane asylums. And in case you were wondering, I’ve decided I’ll start being rich when I’m in my 60s… that should give me plenty of time to work on my fly fishing until mother nature decides it’s time to wash this old salmon downstream. I’ve already arranged for my nephew, Steven, to fish my corpse out of the river when this happens. Thanks a million, Steve-o, and don’t forget to bury me in my Terry Bradshaw jersey.

But who knows if my dream of dying face-down in a pool of murky water will ever become a reality? As the owner of a local business, Obozo’s Marxist class warfare hurts people like me the most. Guntly Copper Corp (GCC) has been a family industry throughout the past five decades, tasking we Guntlies with the dangerous job of removing harmful, valuable metals from abandoned houses that sit like ticking time bombs full of raccoon-infested antique furniture. If business starts picking up like I know it will — there’s a wave of deadly influenza ripping its way through neighborhoods on “the wrong side of the tracks,” if you catch my drift — I might as well slow down productivity, save myself the tax burden, and send my son back into his old line of work: successfully trying to win America’s Funniest Home Videos’ $10,000 prize. The doctor said if that boy falls off another trampoline, he’s going to need a new hip.

So the next time you find yourself in a voting booth, do what my old pal Thomas Paine always says: “Use some common sense.” Tom’s an old buddy of mine down at the gun club, and he’d really appreciate it.